


The Artist Within

by inthisdive



Category: Summer Heights High
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:12:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthisdive/pseuds/inthisdive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. G has finally found someone else at Summer Heights High with an artistic bone in his body. Post series. (This was written in 2008).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist Within

Greg – known affectionately to his students as Mr. G – had finished the day on a high note with an experimental senior drama lesson on the topic of interpretive dance, so this was a Thursday afternoon that suddenly seemed full of promise and exceptional high spirits from all around, especially from within. Time, he thought, for a celebratory, little bit naughty after-work cocktail. 

He straightened his commemorative Mr. G: The Musical windcheater across his chest and cut through the playground on the way to his office. His dog Celine would be there waiting patiently, of course, and so would Rodney, his drinks partner for the night, because it was always more fun to drink with someone than doing it alone - and at such a late hour in the afternoon he probably wouldn't be able to find anyone better to come along. Whistling to himself and still smoothing down his shirt over what looked like superior abdominal muscles in the right light and with the strategic creasing he was currently working on, he almost missed the unusual sight coming up – over there, by the amphitheatre. 

Thank goodness for his artist-sense. Similar to ESP, or the lesser-known Spidey-sense, Mr. G knew he was highly susceptible to discovering all kinds of experimental, unstifled art in the most unlikely places, even a school that was, in his incredibly well-informed opinion, far too focused on sports and P.E (which the budget certainly reflected, didn’t it?) Right here, he thought, taking in the sight and breathing a little bit faster, was a real diamond in the rough, a raw talent. A young Mr. G in the making. 

Shaping his hands into a camera lens, he lined up the subject and paused (crying 'Tableau!' in his mind at the appropriate moment; Mr. G firmly believed that all life could be improved with a rousing game of theatre-sports), studying his gem, his find. There he was – one of the school's trouble kids, a year eight whose name Mr. G had never bothered to learn, because he didn't waste his time on the children that were bound to fail anyway, and in his opinion any kid who didn't take drama was a waste of his precious time and resources. Also, he was pretty sure the kid had been expelled.

Expulsion or not, the boy was well-known for causing all sorts of mayhem – typical of the ethnic kids from those small islands in the Pacific, Mr. G knew, and he wasn't being _racist_ , just citing a fact – and was always on the verge of even more punishment. 

Well, that would sort of trouble would have to be no more. After this life-changing sight, Mr. G vowed to take up the cause of freeing little, what was his name, from the oppression and suffocation of principals like _Margaret_ and the boring, petty rules of the teachers in this school without a creative bone in their body. Couldn't they see that the boy had the soul of a poet just dying to get out? Maybe they'd never seen him like this, the concentration etched on his face, the tip of his tongue just protruding out of his mouth, in the middle of his art. 

The art! Mr. G was rather taken aback at how outstanding it was: very urban, very witty, very _from the streets_. The can of spray paint in the boy's hand made its distinctive rattle as he finished the last letter – a now stronger looking 'n' than before – and took a step back, folding his arms over as he admired his handiwork.

Mr. G was admiring it, too. What strong control in those little, rebellious hands! What insight into current social commentary! What clever use of symbolism and imagery to make his point! It was far too advanced for a year eight. Worthy of being a Mr. G creation itself, he thought approvingly (and reminded himself to do something about that as soon as possible; it wasn’t plagiarising, he knew, if the kid wasn’t usually smart enough to write his own name). It almost took his breath away; the solid blackness of the lines, the swagger in the boy’s walk backwards to see how it held up from a distance. 

And it did hold up from a distance, Mr. G thought. So simple and so powerful: a picture of a penis with the bold words “TATION” following on to the right. It was clever, Mr. G noted approvingly, only if you were familiar with the language of the streets, which, luckily, he was. 

A play on the concept of “dictation.” Who knew little Haka, or Click Click, or whatever his name was, had it in him? Mr G certainly hadn’t seen it coming, and really, he was the most qualified out of this pathetic little school. He really, really was a true diamond in the rough, this boy. A savage with the heart of a poet.

He had to make contact. “Nice piece,” Mr. G called, smiling. 

Jonah stared at him. 

“It’s very counter-cultural! Well done.”

“What?”

The boy was clearly unused to praise, Mr. G thought – and then, he realised, that he might even be some sort of _savant_. Best to continue and explain himself, try to reach him on his level.

“Your piece,” he said, slowly and exaggeratedly, gesturing at the wall, “Is very good.”

“Fuck off,” Jonah scowled, turning to walk away. 

Such an artist, Mr. G thought admiringly, letting him go without another word – because, no doubt, he was off to make another masterpiece. And Mr. G would never, ever stand between a man and his art. He wasn’t _Margaret_ , after all! 

No. He would find that boy again one day (when he didn’t have drinks to consume), and he would nurture his burgeoning talent, because he was, truly, an artist.

_Such_ an artist.

*  
 _fin_


End file.
